The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 107: His Last Letter Home

Episode Date: August 14, 2018

It contained a much desired promise - from beyond the grave.

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The postman snapped the rubber band off the envelopes and slid another stack of mail through the slot in the front door. Ingrid heard the squeal of the tiny hinge, the chirp of tin on tin, and the soft whoosh, as a new stack of mail landed on an old stack of mail. These were the sounds she tried to ignore, the sounds that ushered in a new day of grief. Hungry, mommy, hungry now! Well, that was a sound she couldn't ignore. In the kitchen, Ingrid spread the peanut butter onto the toast for her two-year-old son as the telephone jangled in its cradle. Hello, she whispered. Yes, this is she. Yes, he would have been 31 in January. You're welcome. Ingrid left A.J. to his peanut butter toast and wandered back to the front door. With a bare toe, she pushed aside the catalogs and bills and regarded the dozens of sympathy cards, a literal pie.

of pity she couldn't bring herself to read. But there, buried in the condolences, Ingrid saw the unmistakable handwriting, his handwriting, and a postmark that read September 23, 1973. It was a letter from her husband, a letter from beyond the grave. Six years earlier, Ingrid's husband was just another private, waiting in line to make a phone call home. Thanks to what the Army called his issues with authority, this particular private had managed to fail basic training, and that meant another six weeks away from his new bride. Ingrid would not be happy. As he waited his turn to deliver the bad news, the young private did what he always did. He studied the people around him and made up stories, just to pass the time. The guy with the

soggy shoes, for instance, and the hang-dogged expression, maybe he had just come from the carwash pool where he'd been ordered to clean a fleet of muddy jeeps. And the guy with the arm tattoos that read, hey, baby, maybe he was a new father. Or maybe he was a committed ladies man who wished to proclaim through the permanence of ink his unshakable belief that women are temporary, but tattoos forever. The private smiled to himself. Ingrid would love that one. Truth was, Ingrid found all of his

stories delightful, but she never thought they would make her rich and she never imagined they would make her a widow. And yet, six years later, there she was, her grief temporarily suspended by the shock of seeing a message from the husband she buried five days

earlier. With trembling hands, Ingrid opened the envelope removed the pages and began to read her husband's last words. The very words she hoped and prayed he would one day write. Moments later, awash in unspeakable grief, Ingrid tried to place a long-distance call to her mother. But the operator hesitated when she heard Ingrid's last name. I hate to ask, but are you any relation?

Ingrid sobbed. Yes, he was my husband. "'Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. All the girls down here. We just loved him. You know that, right? We were his biggest fans.' Ingrid sobs some more. I know, she said. He loved all of you, too. Back in line six years earlier, Ingrid's husband had turned his attention to the soldier on the phone in front of him. The red-rimmed eyes, the bunched-up shoulders, the balled-up fist gently tapping against his fresh crew cut. This was a dear John call. No doubt about it. Ingrid's husband imagined the girl on the other end, a deceitful girl, a girl who had cheated with the soldier's best friend. The call ended. The phone slipped from the

soldier's hand and dangled in mid-air. Ingrid's husband was close enough to hear the voice of the operator. Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Are you still there? Would you like to place another call? Blinking back a tear, the soldier gripped the receiver and poured his heart out to the woman on the other end of the line. Ingrid's husband didn't eavesdrop. He simply watched the soldier's face and dreamed up a little story just to pass the time. Eventually, Ingrid's husband made it out of the army and back home, briefly. He kept writing his stories, but when A.J. arrived and money became more of a consideration, the former private began telling his tales to anyone who would pay to hear them.

Turns out, Ingrid wasn't the only one who liked them. People said they felt so real. They said his characters reminded them of their own neighbors. So the former private took his tales on the road, and soon the money began to flow. But being away from his family was painful. Ingrid missed her husband, A.J. missed his dad, and the man who used to write stories just to pass the time began to agonize over the days he could never get back.

Once, after an all too brief visit home, he wrote the story of a lonesome troubadour who yearned to relive his favorite days over and over again. People like that one, too. A lot. Then, just as his career was taking off, Ingrid's husband did the unthinkable. He quit. In his last letter home, the young writer promised to start writing different kinds of stories, novels, and screenplays, anything that didn't have to be told night after night over and over and over again.

He ended his letter with this, remember, baby, it's the first 60 years that count, and I've got 30 more to go. I love you. Later that same day, he dropped the letter in the mail and boarded a private plane that crashed moments after leaving the runway. And five days after that, the postman was on Ingrid's porch, delivering the best possible news at the worst possible time. Today, we still remember the characters that Ingrid's husband left behind. The kid in the soggy shoes with a case of the car wash blues. Rapid Roy, the stock car boy, with a tattoo that said baby and another one that just said hey. We still remember the roller derby queen, the pool room hustler that no one messed with, the baddest man in the whole damn town, and of course the anonymous operator,

whose sweet voice calmed a heartbroken lover at the lowest point in his life. We remember these characters, though, not just because they feel real, but because the man who brought them to life never made it home. It was his death, you see, that catapulted his stories to the top of the charts, and it was the characters he created that assured his own immortality. Naturally, Ingrid still has his last letter home. It's kept in a box just for wishes and dreams that'll never come true. It is perhaps the ultimate love letter,

a promise made from beyond the grave by a homesick troubadour. who yearned to save time and a bottle, a teller of stories and a singer of songs named Jim Croce. Anyway, that's the way I heard it. When you manage procurement for multiple facilities, every order matters. But when it's for a hospital system, they matter even more. Granger gets it and knows there's no time for managing multiple suppliers and no room for shipping delays.

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The ocean teaches us how our everyday choices impact even the deepest places. The ocean moves us, Whether we're riding a wave or soaking in its breathtaking beauty. The ocean connects us. Find your connection at Monterey Bay Aquarium.org slash connects.